


I'll Kill Anyone Who Looks at You

by HazelNMae



Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, it's not even funny, like so much fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-16
Updated: 2019-08-16
Packaged: 2020-09-02 11:04:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,115
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20274883
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HazelNMae/pseuds/HazelNMae
Summary: Written for the prompts: “Isn’t it obvious? I’m in love with you!” & “I will kill anyone that looks at you the way I look at you.”





	I'll Kill Anyone Who Looks at You

You’d worked for Alfie Solomons for three years, two months, and fourteen days. In that time, you’d spoken to Alfie exactly thirty two times. 

Most of those conversations–twenty two, to be exact–revolved around work.

You distilled rum. Had done so since you could remember, having been raised by a bootlegger in Boston. You were one of the best and Alfie had hired you on reputation alone–knowing that if any Boston Jew would willingly send his oldest son to London to work, he must be good.

Eight of your thirty two conversations with Alfie had revolved around your upbringing, shared over late nights in the bakery, in which you both complained about your overprotective mothers, pushy fathers, and dreams that surpassed both. 

The other two conversations you’d had with Alfie were harder to place. Those conversations had been accidents–topics you’d stumbled into without either of you knowing. Discussions of the war, your lives during and after it, and the urges that you both struggled to understand. 

You hadn’t admitted to being attracted to him, per se, but you hadn’t denied it either.

And what’s more is that he didn’t deny returning the feeling. 

Your thirty third conversation came last night, when after a particularly grueling day, you stayed late to clean a still and found yourself embroiled in one of those not-so-easy-to-place discussions with Alfie.

“Do you ever take a night off?” He’d asked, sneaking up behind you.

His voice startled you but comforted you at the same time. “Not with _my_ boss,” you said winking. “He’s quite demanding.”

“You don’t know the half of it, love,” Alfie responded, playing into your flirtatious banter.

After several more hours of small talk and a few glasses of rum, all consumed by you because Alfie didn’t partake, he’d walked you home in the dark.

He brushed a piece of lint off your shoulder when you turned to tell him goodnight, a movement you mistook for something more prompting you to lean in for a kiss.

“Whoa, what are you doing?” He asked. “I don’t know what you’ve fucking heard, right, but–”

“Oh god, Alfie, I’m so sorry,” you interrupted in embarrassment. You covered your face with your hands and turned toward the door. Though you couldn’t see what you were doing, you stumbled for the handle wanting to get away from him as quickly as possible.

“Wait a minute there, mate,” he said, placing a hand on your shoulder. “Just calm down for a fuckin’ second. It’s alright, then.” 

But you just ignored him, moving quickly into your house with embarrassment and shedding your coat as fast as you could. Despite the fact that you took the time to dress for bed, and settle in for a nice sleep, you lay awake tossing and turning, overthinking every single thing you’d said and done.

By the morning, you’d only had a couple of hours of actual sleep. You walked to the bakery fully prepared to quit on the spot if shit got too awkward. There were only a few things you could imagine were worse than working for a boss you’d tried to kiss. And one of those things was actually fucking talking about it.

Alfie went along with his day as if it’d never happened. At first you were grateful for this, but by the end of the day you were at least a little hurt that he hadn’t attempted to discuss it with you.

But that all changed when he cornered you in the back of the warehouse when you thought you were alone.

“Umm, listen,” he said, after clearing his throat to get your attention. He seemed nervous, which is something you didn’t think he experienced. It was a bit endearing to watch him fumble with his cane and run a hand through his hair and over his face.

“I’m so sorry about yesterday,” you found yourself saying. “It’s just, well, I thought I’d noticed something in the way you look at me. Not that you can’t look at me. It’s just–” 

You were scrambling.

“–It’s just that very few people look at me like that, and I guess I just though–”

But before you could finish, Alfie had closed the space between you and had raised a hand to stroke your cheek.

You struggled to breathe, taken completely aback. You couldn’t make sense of his action–at least not in light of his response to you last night. You didn’t understand what he was doing, but it felt incredible–and also terrible. 

_It just felt-_-and that’s something you couldn’t understand.

But he answered all of your questions before you could ask them. 

“Who’s looking at you that way, eh?” He asked, rubbing your cheek with his thumb. “I will kill anyone who fuckin’ looks at you the way I look at you, yeah?”

You swallowed the words that were on the tip of your tongue, unable to actually speak them and still unsure of what he was saying.

Alfie just looked at you, his eyes darting between yours. It was as if he could read you–knew exactly what you were thinking, despite the fact that _you_ had no fucking clue. He looked at you like no one had ever looked at you. Like you were worth something. Like you had something to give. And like he wanted to take it.

“Goddammit, Alfie,” you muttered, looking away from his eyes. You couldn’t bear his gaze any longer.

“Isn’t it obvious?” He whispered, placing his free hand on the small of your back and pulling you in close. “I’m in love with you.”

You realized in that moment that he’d said all you had wanted to hear. You leaned against him, feeling the warmth from his body pressed against yours. You stood on your toes to reach his mouth with your own. It took all you could muster to not fall apart when you felt him return the kiss. His beard tickled your cleanly shaven jaw, his breath felt heavy against yours, his tongue fought your lips for access to your mouth.

Alfie’s kiss was laced with heat and passion. It was driven by desire. It was warm. It was soft. It was fire.

And when it was over, and he pulled away from you, you looked at him–really looked at him–for the first time. You could see the desire in his eyes. You recognized, for the first time, what had always been there.

You realized in that moment that you never had to count your conversations with Alfie again. The possibilities were _infinite_.

“I’m yours,” you whispered, leaning your forehead against his.

“Mine,” he responded, closing his eyes.


End file.
